Zhao Benyi, aged 87, one of the many Chinese extras waiting to be hired outside the gates of the old Beijing film studio. Photograph: Dan Chung for the Guardian Dan Chung/Guardian

There have been two kinds of war in Zhao Benyi's long life. The first was the bitter, brutal struggle against Japanese occupiers. He joined up because he had no food, but conditions were no better in the ranks. The second is an easier and safer business; he has been a bystander rather than a combatant. The Japanese troops are uglier than those he remembers of old. The Chinese are better fed, their weapons more impressive. And when the cameras stop rolling, both sides throw down their arms.

For the past decade – since a director spotted his wispy beard and corrugated cheeks – Zhao, 87, has supplemented meagre benefits with his earnings from bit parts in films and TV melodramas. "I do it to eat," he said. "I'm old and I can't labour any more, but I can act. There's no risk, no investment."

Each morning he joins scores of hopefuls milling around the former Beijing film studio, in the north of the Chinese capital in search of money, fun or fame.

China's film industry is of growing fascination to the US. The country has overtaken Japan to become the world's second largest box office territory. Some believe it could surpass the US by the end of the decade. The quota for imported films, slightly relaxed recently , has encouraged more co-productions as Americans attempt to tap into the Chinese market.

The government's efforts to boost its domestic industry have included building a vast production base at Huairou, just outside Beijing. Many extras still wait at the old facility, now closed, hoping crews will find them. They while away the day munching snacks, checking phones, posing artfully with cigarettes or hunkering down on folding stools. Some greet familiar faces; others gaze around with disdain.

A man with red-tinged hair and skinny trousers rounds up men and women to watch a game show. "We need 10! Two more!" he barks, herding them away.

The fee is only 40 yuan (£4.30). Work as an extra might mean 30 to 60 yuan for a day that could run from seven in the morning to 11 at night; a speaking part may pay two or three times that.

A recent survey by the state news agency Xinhua suggested portraying a corpse could command a 100-yuan bonus, while being slapped would be worth 500 yuan.

Few Beijingers think it worth their time. "Extras get exploited all the time. So many people take a cut; by the time the money gets down the chain there's too little," said Zhao. Sometimes productions refuse to pay at all.

It's not a proper job, one young man said, just an adventure en route to real work. Those who do rely on it have fewer options: they may be old, like Zhao, or otherwise incapacitated. One man reeked of alcohol as he staggered through the group. It was not yet 8am.

"Most people here are pretty low-class," said another. It may look like a disorganised crowd, but the hierarchy is evident.

Zhao said he was not an extra as he usually had lines. A middle-aged woman, mysterious in purple hood and coffee-coloured sunglasses, insisted that she was there for a prearranged audition. Another, Xiao Huifang, 61, had printed a résumé detailing her versatility: she is suitable for roles including old lady, grandmother, rural old woman, mother, ethnic old woman, old woman in an official's household and retired lady. Work has been sparse in recent years, she said. But the studio's closure has not deterred newcomers.

Chen Jinxiang, who retired as a taxi driver last October, has already notched up 30 fleeting appearances and two lines – "Don't kill me! Don't kill me!" – in one of China's ubiquitous TV wartime dramas. "I couldn't cry, but then I thought of my mother and wept. The director really liked it," he said.

"I can forget who I am when I act. I'm not high-class, but I can dress up like a high-class person," he said.

Others seek a permanent escape. Zhao said the story of Wang Baoqiang, who became a star after a director chose him for the bleak but gripping drama Blind Shaft, inspired many more to gather at the gates. None of them has enjoyed the same success.

A scene from Blind Shaft (Li Yang, 2003). China's extras hope to emulate the success of one of its stars, Wang Baoqiang, who was plucked from obscurity. PR

For years, Fu Shengli had mundane jobs in Shanxi province, yearning to star in action movies like Bruce Lee. At 32, he decided to do something about it. Wearing a trilby, he waited patiently. "The pay was better as a security guard on construction sites," he said. "My parents want me to get a job and get married. I want to chase my dream."

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